


Ash, Soot, and Flame

by Cadhla



Series: Sailor Moon Fairy Tales [4]
Category: Bishoujo Senshi Sailor Moon | Pretty Guardian Sailor Moon
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Gen, Rabbit in the Moon, Rabbits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2015-12-29
Packaged: 2018-05-10 03:27:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5569138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cadhla/pseuds/Cadhla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a fairy tale in everything, if looked at from the right direction, in the right light. This is the fairy tale of a princess who burned every day of her life, and everything she lost, and gained, by the light of a loving moon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ash, Soot, and Flame

Once upon a time, very far away from here, there was a kingdom on fire.

Now this may seem like a strange thing to you, living as you do in a place that is not on fire, and where fire is a thing to fear and flee from, but in the kingdom of which I speak, flame was the natural order of things. The ground was packed ash and obsidian, and the plants grew somehow already burning. The air smelled always of smoke, of char and cinder, and it was never truly day or night as we define them, because ash blanketed the sky, turning everything into eternal twilight. Yet there were people who dwelt there, and gladly, because flame was all that they had ever known.

In the kingdom, there was a castle, built all of stone and smoulder, and in the castle, there was a princess, for castles and princesses nest together like sparks and tinder. She had hair as black as ash, eyes as black as soot, and skin the color of the white-hot heart of the flame, where it burns most brightly and with the least mercy. She was cared for by her grandfather, who was the only family she had, her parents both having died in the making of her.

Ah, but this is a custom which should be explained. In kingdoms that are not on fire, there are many ways of having children. They can be found asleep in peach pits or under cabbage leafs; they can be brought by great white birds with wings like sails or deposited on doorsteps. They may even, in some strange kingdoms, be born from the bodies of their mothers. And in a way, it was this last custom to which the kingdom of fire adhered, for every child was born from the bodies of their parents, who would build themselves a great pyre and leap into the flame. Some emerged missing only a limb or heart or some other inessential body part; others never emerged at all, having chosen to give all they had to feed the flame that birthed their babe. So it was that the princess of the kingdom of fire knew that her parents had burned against the night like the brightest star in the heavens, because they loved her so very much that they felt the need to give her everything they had to give.

So great was their sacrifice that as they burned, two crows rose with the smoke, their feathers black as char, and they were with the princess always, from the day that she was taken from the ashes and wiped clean by her grandfather’s hands. The people said that the only time she had laughed was when she saw those crows, and perhaps they were right, for as she grew, she proved a grave and serious girl. The love of her parents burned in her breast like a living coal, and she was determined to show her people that she was worth the king and queen who had died in making her.

It is a heavy thing to place upon a child, the need to prove herself worth two adults, and adults who had chosen to sacrifice themselves to serve what they saw as a greater good. It is a heavier thing by far for the child to take that burden upon her own shoulders. The princess grew up beautiful and clever, with a temper like the fire’s own heart, and determined to carry all her kingdom’s trials as her birthright. Never was an alarm sounded in the kingdom but the princess was there, ready to assist. Never was a question posed but the princess was looking for an answer.

“My dear, you must rest,” said her grandfather, who loved her better than anyone else in the kingdom. “You are young yet. Let others toil while you enjoy the time when you burn brightest.”

“That seems entirely out of order,” she replied. “I should work now, while I have the strength for it, and enjoy my time when I am old and ready to be resting.”

Her grandfather, who knew all too well that this would not be the way of things—that those who work in youth will work in age, even when that work extends to the guardianship of headstrong princesses—shook his head. “Time is short, and you will miss it when it is gone,” he told her. “Believe me, for I am older than you, and wiser than you.”

And the princess smiled, for she loved her grandfather more dearly than anything in the world, more dearly even than the black crows who shadowed her every step. She pressed a hot kiss against his brow, and said, “Now is your time to rest, Grandfather, and not mine. I love you, and I have work to do.”

Then she was back into the whirl of her kingdom, and she did not look to see her grandfather watch her go, tears cutting through the soot that covered his cheeks. For he knew, as she did not yet, that time is always shorter than we think, and that nothing, however dear, can stay with us forever.

I have already said that there were no true nights in a kingdom where the sky is ever shrouded in ash. It would seem to follow, then, that the princess would not know the moon or stars, because they would have blocked from view. But who has not loved the sight of smoke curling up into a clear black sky, like a ribbon extended as an offering to the heavens? Sometimes, the clever wizards who lived in the palace towers would call to the wind, whispering sweet promises, until it cleared the skies just enough to let the people see.

So yes, the princess knew the moon: knew it, and had no time for it. The moon was a lazy layabout, resting fat and contented in the sky until the fire she was sure must burn there roared out of control, burning the moon entirely away—and then, not content to be a properly burnt thing, the moon would grow back, returning to shameless brilliance. It seemed quite improper, and a waste of good kindling, which could have been put to better use in the homes of her people, who were always in need of something they could burn.

But the princess, for all that she worked hard and hoped to work harder, was tired. She knew that her own fires needed fueling, much as it pained her to admit, and so she took the sticks and tinder that her faithful crows brought to her. One night, with a small fire burning slow and steady in her lap—for people who are born of fire are strengthened by it, not weakened in the least, like those of us who are born in all the other myriad ways—she sat on the steps of her palace, glaring resentfully at the eternally lazy moon.

“I am very lonely, and I do not know what to do, but I suppose you would know nothing of loneliness, or of the trials of others,” she said to the moon. “I work each day to save and support my kingdom, only to find it endangered again on the next day, as if my toils had done nothing at all. I do not have time for friends, or games, or any of the other frivolities that I am told a princess should desire. And I am told that every princess loves the moon. I am not every princess. I do not love the moon. I am tired of struggling, and do not know what to do, but I will never love you, and would be glad to see you vanish from my skies.”

That night, she slept in a great clay pot with coals packed all around her, and she dreamt that the moon was a girl in a gold and silver dress, with silver cinders in her hair. They walked together, against the princess’s better judgment, and what they spoke of, she did not remember when she woke. All she remembered was the look on the girl-moon’s face, so sad and so forgiving, like she could not believe that she could ever be unloved for long, like she would never dream of refusing love just because it was not yet returned. The princess felt regret, somehow, at the memory of the girl-moon’s eyes, like she had failed a test she did not know was being given…and then she forced the feeling away, for the day had begun, and she had work to do.

She was helping the palace gardeners to prepare a rosebush to be sent to a foreign prince who was known for his love of roses when her crows came screaming from the sky, harrying her in a manner they normally reserved for grave and immediate threats. The princess turned, the feeling of regret she had been fighting all morning solidifying into sudden dread.

“Show me,” she said, and followed the crows back into the palace, her steps as fleet as the beating of their ashen wings.

They found her grandfather collapsed in front of the great fire in the main hall, his eyes closed, his fingers curled as if to grasp a hand that was not there. “Grandfather!” cried the princess, falling to her knees and reaching for him. He did not respond, and his skin was cool against her fingers. She gathered him to her, tears steaming away to nothing as she wept. “Grandfather, please. Don’t leave me. Don’t go. Wake up. You have to wake up.”

But he did not wake, and finally, the princess had had enough of weeping, which never fixes anything, but only makes the pain last longer. She gathered him into her arms, and she carried him all through the palace to the tower where the clever wind-wizards dwelt. For in a kingdom of fire, the dead do not grow cool: they burn and they blaze, and they leave no flesh behind, unless it is the living flesh of children.

The wind-wizards were astounded to see their princess at their door, and more astounded still to see the steam-marked patches on her cheeks. “My grandfather is ill,” she said, and her voice was a child’s voice, uncertain and more fragile than she knew. “You have magic. Make him better.”

So the wind-wizards took him, and they did their very best, because they loved their princess, but they also feared her wrath. Fire is a beautiful thing. It warms and it preserves and it keeps away the dark…but oh, how it can burn.

Finally, the youngest among them came to her, and said, “He is very ill. There is a cure, but it is rare and hard to gather. You could send a hundred men and not have a single one return.”

The princess raised her chin, the fire that made her burning in her eyes. “Tell me,” she commanded.

And the wizard did.

She left that very hour, alone, on foot, with only a bundle of curried meat and sweet chili peppers on her back. She needed no weapons; fire is its own weapon. She needed no guides; her kingdom was as familiar to her as her own hands. All she needed was a miracle, and if a miracle was what she needed, then a miracle she would have.

She had not walked an hour when she came upon a rabbit, somehow still white despite the ashes hanging in the air, sitting upon a half-burnt stump. Her crows landed on her shoulders and cawed at the beast, catching her attention. The princess stopped.

“You are altogether too white, and will shortly be eaten by something larger and more fierce than yourself,” she scolded the rabbit. “Scurry away, and find yourself a proper coat of ashes.”

“I would rather find myself a proper lunch,” said the rabbit. “What are you carrying? Will you share it with me?”

“No, because I am on a long quest, and I will need my food,” said the princess. “Find your own.”

The rabbit looked at her reproachfully. “Refusing to grant charity is not a virtue.”

“Neither is starving,” said the princess.

“Ah, but I am starving, so now we are both without virtue,” said the rabbit. “If you would feed me, we would both be virtuous, and all manner of good things would surely befall us.”

The princess was not sure what to make of this, but she sighed, and extracted a single piece of curried meat from her sack, placing it on the stump beside the rabbit. “This you may have, and no more,” she said. “Be glad of it.”

“I shall be,” the rabbit assured her, and devoured the meat in two quick bites. Sitting back on its still-white haunches, it said, “You have done me a favor, and now I must do you one. If you would find what you seek, you will need to travel to the west.”

“I am already traveling to the west, and I do not need help from a talking rabbit,” said the princess, although she had been considering changing her course; still, there was no need for the rabbit to know that. She straightened. “Remember what I said. You are too exposed, and need protection.”

“Thank you, princess!” cried the rabbit, and before she knew it, it had leapt into the air, quick as a flashfire, and settled itself atop her pack. The crows croaked protest, but did not attack. “Your offer is gladly accepted.”

“I offered nothing!” protested the princess, but the rabbit was not to be moved, and in time, she moved on again, grumbling about the laziness of lapines.

She walked long and long, carrying the weight of the rabbit with every step, and at first it seemed like a great burden, but it lessened, until she found herself glancing back, wondering if the creature was still there. It was sleeping, one paw covering its eyes, ears drooping low.

“What a foolish creature,” she said, and walked on.

Night had fallen, and the princess was looking for a proper torch—for even a smoke-filled night is darker than the day—when the rabbit woke, jumping down from her shoulders and taking up a position on the path ahead. So white was its coat that it gleamed faintly in the shadows, and she found that she could travel by it, providing she was willing to trust a bunny.

“We are on a serious quest, and there is no time for whatever foolishness rabbits get up to,” she said sternly. “Promise if I follow you that you will lead us the right way.”

“I will,” said the rabbit, “providing I do not get hungry, because a hungry rabbit is likely to do almost anything.” It looked at her expectantly.

The princess groaned and threw it another piece of curried meat, and some sweet peppers. “Here,” she said. “Now lead me truly, and do not go astray.”

“How could I stray when traveling with such a generous heart?” asked the rabbit, with all apparent sincerity. It fell upon the food as it had before, and one, two, three, there was not even a crumb remaining. The rabbit turned and hopped into the gloom, tail raised high and glimmering like a beacon meant to guide her home.

The princess, who still had reservations, followed the rabbit, for she saw no other choice; there was no time, and she was not sure that she could find the way alone. On and on they walked, the rabbit hopping obliviously ever on, the princess close behind. Her crows launched themselves into the air, circling ever higher as they watched her progress.

To be a princess in a kingdom of fire is to learn the signs of things, the little omens that mean danger. A twig snapped; a spark flared; a small, almost tame bonfire suddenly arched through the night. Without thought, the princess leapt, gathering the rabbit into her arms a bare second before a firecat flew through the space where the bunny had been. Terrified, the rabbit buried its face against her chest and trembled.

“I told you to be careful,” she scolded the rabbit. “Now stop your shaking; you are unhurt, and there is no call for weeping, or whatever it is that rabbits do. We must save my grandfather.”

The rabbit raised its head. “Do you love him?”

“What manner of question is that?” demanded the princess. “Of course I love him!”

“Then you can love,” said the rabbit, looking strangely pleased. “I was not sure.” It jumped down from her arms and began moving onward into the dark, leaving her no choice but to follow.

On and on they walked, through fields of ash and fields of flame, the crows circling overhead, and the rabbit guiding the way. Bit by bit, the sky began to clear, and the air grew cold. The princess, who had little concept of anything but heat, began to shiver.

“What is this place?” she asked.

“There are many kingdoms in the world,” said the rabbit. “Some are desert-dry and some are green and growing. Some are wet and some are dry. Your kingdom is a kingdom of fire; did you not think that it would have an opposite number? You share a border, although you may not have realized. No one comes here by mistake, or even by intent, unless their need is great.”

The princess did not care for the idea that her kingdom had been keeping secrets from her. But the sky was growing clearer, and the air was growing colder, and she had to admit that the rabbit spoke the truth. On they walked, until they came to a place where ice met fire, forming a clear, clean pool of water. Flowers grew all around it, white in their centers, but with blackened edges, so that they seemed ashen, or like the changing moon.

With a glad cry, the princess reached for the water, only to pull back her hand as if she had been burned. For she was a creature of ash and soot and flame, and the water was too cold for her to touch. She sank to her knees on the bank, weeping tears of steam.

“I have failed,” she said. “I cannot do this. I would die in doing this—I will die in doing this—and still it will not save him. I have nothing left.”

“You have your lunch,” said the rabbit helpfully.

The princess turned to the rabbit, ready to explode with rage. Then she stopped herself, and said, slowly, “When I fed you before, you helped me.”

“True,” said the rabbit.

“You were surprised that I could love,” said the princess.

“That is also true,” said the rabbit.

Then the princess—who was a princess of fire, and very good at reading the signs written on the skin of the world—shrugged out of her bundle and placed it on the ground before the rabbit, exposing every scrap of food she had remaining. “Eat,” she said. “Eat and help me.”

And the rabbit ate. It ate until there was no sign that anything had been there at all, until it should have burst from eating. Then it turned to her, eyes solemn, and said, “You will know what to do. And it does not matter if you love me, because I have always loved you.”

With that, the rabbit leapt into the water, quick as the blinking of an eye, and vanished beneath the surface. Ripples spread out where it had been, and just as the princess began to think that she had been deserted, the rabbit floated back to the surface, drifting until it reached the bank.

“Rabbit?” said the princess, hesitantly. The rabbit did not answer, and she reached for it, only to find it cold and soaked through from the pool. It did not move, but its body had warmed the water enough that she could survive its touch. The princess closed her eyes, realizing what the rabbit had done. Then she lifted its body from the ground and wrapped it in the thick leather of her bundle, where the water would be kept, protected from the ash. She pulled handfuls of flowers, packing them tight around the rabbit’s still, small shape. Then, with tears still steaming on her cheeks, she turned and ran, eyes closed, body unerringly seeking the palace.

She ran that night, further and faster than any princess has ever run before, until the palace appeared before her, and she ran even faster. The wind-wizards were stunned when she burst through their door, and more stunned still when she threw her bundle onto the table before them.

“Heal him,” she commanded.

They opened the pack and were astounded, for no one had ever brought back so many clean, undamaged moon-flowers, or so much clean, pure water. As for the princess, her heart lifted when she saw that the rabbit was gone, for its absence gave her hope.

The wind-wizards banished her from their tower, for they had work to do, and she paced the battlements, watching the burning land below her, watching the smoke-shrouded sky above. “I know that was you,” she scolded the ashen air. “Show your face, so I may thank you properly, and hate you for frightening me.”

But the clouds did not part, and the princess remained on the battlements alone until the wind-wizards came to her, and said, “He is awake. He will not go.”

Then she flew to him, the moon quite forgotten—and rightfully so—in her joy over the recovery of her grandfather. As for him, he held her, and stroked her hair, and told her he would stay as long as he was needed, for she clearly was not as ready as she believed to rule her lands alone.

There are many kinds of princess, and all of them have stories. There are princesses in forests, and they know their duty, but they cannot resist the sky; they are forever looking upward. There are princesses in unending sunlight, and they know their duty, but they cannot keep themselves from dancing; they are forever filled with laughter. There are princesses in ice, and they know their duty, but they cannot fight the urge to know more; they are forever seeking knowledge. This princess was a princess of fire, of ashes and cinders and beautiful destruction, and as her grandfather held her, she finally understood that she could be strong without needing to stand ever and always alone.

Her grandfather was still tired, and so she saw him off to bed, scolding until he swore that he would stay there. Then she returned to her own room, trying to shake off her own weariness, and stopped as she saw that the sky had finally cleared. There was the fat white moon, shining as bright and lazily as ever against the crown of the sky.

“You are horrible and I hate you, but I think I love you too,” she said. “Is that why I came?”

The moon did not answer. The moon so rarely does.

The princess shook her head and went to bed, and when the next day dawned, she resumed her duties as she had always performed them…but now she took time to watch her crows fly their strange and elegant dances against the sky, and she sat with her grandfather for games beside the fire, and she took the time to remember that her life may have begun with a sacrifice, but it did not have to endure as one. The people of the kingdom bragged far and wide of their princess, who loved them so dearly that she had learned to conserve her fires, and would be with them forever. In time, those stories would travel as far as the lands of those other princesses we have mentioned but not considered further, and things would change again.

But that is another tale to tell.

Now rest, my dear, and be at ease; there’s a fire in the hearth and a wind in the eaves, and the night is so dark, and the dark is so deep, and it’s time that all good little stars go to sleep.


End file.
